Plot twist:
Beginning weight (July 14): 230 lbs.
Weight at Start of Week #2: 222
Weight at Start of Week #3: 218.4
Weight at Start of Week #4: 215.3
Weight at Start of Week #5: 215.1
Weight at Start of Week #6: 211.2
Weight at Start of Week #7: 208.1
Weight at Start of Week #8: 204.3
Weight at Start of Week #9: 201.9
Weight at Start of Week #10: 199
Weight at Start of Week #11: 196.8
Weight at Start of Week #12: 194.4
Weight at Start of Week #13: 193.5
Weight at Start of Week #14: 190.2
Weight at Start of Week #15: 185.6
Weight at Start of Week #16: 183.8
Weight at Start of Week #17: 182.3
Weight at Start of Week #18: 179.4
Weight at Start of Week #19: 177.6
Weight at Start of Week #20: 177.2
Weight at Start of Week #21: 173.5
Weight at Start of Week #22 (current week): 174.6!
Total weight loss so far: 55.4 lbs.
Nine weeks to go.
It’s just a smidge, really — a bissel — but when I stepped on the scale this week and saw that, after four-plus months of steady weight loss on this medically supervised diet, I’d gained 1.1 pounds … well, my heart felt like it sank at least five pounds. Alas, my newfangled scale — which can analyze my body composition down to the minutest detail — doesn’t factor in mood swings. Just the facts, man.
Our diet-group facilitator, in our cohort’s weekly Zoom meetings, had warned us that might happen at around this point in our “transition” phase. She explained that our bodies may tend to store more fluid so they can process the protein from the real food we’re reintroducing, as opposed to the super-processed diet shakes. But I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to see that number go up, after so many weeks of down, down, down. As much as I tried to laugh it off, I couldn’t help it: I cared. It bothered me.
Why? A pound or so — that’s barely a blip. I’d heard that our weight can fluctuate several pounds over the course of a day. So this should be no biggie, right?
But it is big. This diet has been hard — I’ve been hungry pretty much all the time (duh?) — and my reward (aside from, you know, getting healthier and feeling vastly better) has been to see, at my suspenseful weekly weigh-ins, that I’ve hit a lower number than the last time. I do realize that at some point the weight loss has to stop — but I’m still taking in way fewer calories than I expend, so I should still be on the downward slope. Still getting that burst of happy endorphins each time I step on the scale. Still appearing daily as the Incredible Shrinking Josh.
Truth is, I already feel like I’m at a pretty good size. My shirts fit better. After agonizing over the purchases for days, I finally sprang for a new belt and a second pair of pants at my new, slimmer waist size. At the age of 64, I bound up whole flights of stairs like a dewy-faced 50-year-old. I guess I’m just thinking, Universe, why aren’t you letting me continue a while longer on this giddy slide down the BMI chart? Don’t you love me?
Which is incredible, because — starting from my childhood — when it came to food, love always used to mean abundance. Nay, overabundance!
You should have seen how my father spread butter on toast. There was more butter than toast! Buttes of butter! And on top of all that he’d slather on pinnacles of preserves! Always too much food — which, he made clear, would help me grow big and strong, so that I could eventually lead the Communist revolution that would liberate the starving masses.
It’s strange how my Too-Much-Food-Is-Love attitude wasn’t shaken by watching my dad overeat himself into danger when I was a teenager and he was working several jobs and struggling under enormous stress. I remember how, after dinner, he’d just keep eating — more casserole, yet more, and then dessert — until he’d end up almost comatose in his armchair, snoring although the TV was blaring, then waking up and noshing some more. I hated it! I wanted to say, Stop! But it felt like that would be saying, Dad, stop loving yourself. So I’d just watch, simmering. As I think back to those days, especially knowing how he was spiraling towards an eventual deadly stroke, I feel shame. I’m ashamed of myself for not trying harder to stop him from hurting himself with food. I’m ashamed of being so weak.
Once — exactly once — I tried to talk to him about it. We were downtown somewhere, near Central Park. I remember an awning over our heads. Maybe it was raining. In my mind, I’d been building up to telling him he really needed to start focusing on his health: eating less, taking the blood-pressure meds his doctor had prescribed, and giving another shot to the low-sodium salt substitute he hated with a passion. I would soon be going off to college, and I guess I suspected that the chances of us having this conversation would just be steadily diminishing.
And so, haltingly, I tried to raise these issues with him. Dad, don’t you really think you should … I don’t remember how far I got. I do recall the look in his eyes — shock, at first, that I was broaching this taboo subject of his eating habits; then anger. It was one of the rare times when I looked in his eyes and didn’t see myself reflected back with boundless love. He’d gone inside himself, into a place of profound hurt, into his own shame. I just stood there, almost panicking at the horrible mistake I’d made, when he finally returned to me. His eyes softened and he saw me again as the son who loved him back — whose love, I now realize, had saved his life during a time, after he and my mother had their bitter divorce, when he let himself go so horribly that even Mom worried for him.
For what turned out to be his few remaining years, on my weekend visits and during summer vacations, I never again brought up the issue of his overeating. And I later harbored such deep regret for not pushing him further that day, or afterwards. But neither of us could bear the pain it caused him.
Is it crazy of me, after all that, to still look back on eating with Dad — and being fed by him — with enormous joy? To smile at all that too-muchness? Is it nuts to think that, moving forward after my dieting days are over, I can carry that sweet spirit into a sensible long-term regimen that will maintain my weight at a healthy level? Perhaps not. After all, it was the food that was too much — not the love. The love was just right. And it saved both of us, really. It fed us what we needed.
Beautiful piece, as always, Josh! I feel you on the gain angst. As a lifelong dieter who has seen my weight go up and down 100 lbs over the years, I can totally relate. It doesn’t feel good when you feel you are depriving yourself to not have that “win” at the end of the week. My only advice is to trust the process and trust the science. You most likely gained a little water. Aside from the protein digestion, your sodium intake is now greater because the shakes are so uniform. Your body may be retaining water. Keep fighting the good fight this week, drink lots and lots of water, and I bet you’ll see a loss this next week.
I know from personal experience how hard it is to see the weight on the scale going up when dieting. But I keep in mind that weight - body fat in particular - is only one of many risk factors when it comes to health. I'm monitoring my blood pressure every week, and plan to get lab work done in a month or two to check on my cholesterol and blood sugar levels. These will give me a more complete picture of my health than just stepping on a consumer-grade scale.